England's team didn't walk. They marched.
In the hotel lobby, they moved in a phalanx. Crisp white tracksuits. Stone-faced expressions. They looked like they were heading to a coronation, not a football match.
Their captain, Arthur Sterling, stood at the front. Blonde hair, square jaw, built like a rugby player. He radiated "Protagonist Energy."
"That guy looks heroic," Soccer commented, watching from behind a potted plant. "Like a knight from a book."
"He's trouble," Silas whispered, scrolling through his dossier. "Arthur Sterling. Center Back. Nickname: Excalibur. He hasn't missed a tackle in two years. His interception rate is 100%."
"100% is a lie," Kai Rivers adjusted his collar. "Nobody is perfect. Except me on a good hair day."
Soccer bounced on his titanium ankle. Click. Click.
"Knights have armor," Soccer mused. "Armor is heavy. Heavy things sink."
Arthur Sterling stopped. He looked over at the lurking Americans. His gaze was sharp, noble.
He walked over. His team flanked him like guards.
"Team USA," Arthur said. His voice was deep, resonant. "You play with chaos. It is disrespectful to the sport."
"Disrespectful?" Vincent Drake stepped forward, looming. "We call it winning, fancy-pants."
Arthur didn't flinch. "Winning without honor is defeat. Your tactics against France—stalling, tripping, anti-football—were disgraceful. Tonight, we will purge you. We will restore order."
He turned on his heel. "Knights. Form up."
The English team marched away.
"Purge us?" Dylan squeaked. "That sounds permanent."
Soccer grabbed an apple from the complimentary fruit bowl.
"Order vs Chaos," Soccer took a bite. "Order builds castles. Chaos brings storms. Let's see if his castle has a roof."
Match Night. Round of 16.
The stadium was draped in the Cross of St. George. English fans were singing loudly. Not screaming—singing. A deep, harmonious chant that echoed like a hymn.
football's coming home...
Coach Titan stood in the locker room. The vibe was tense. Knockout stage. Win or go home.
"England plays a 5-3-2," Titan drew on the board. "Five defenders. They are called The Round Table. They sit deep. They tackle hard. They clear long."
Titan circled Arthur Sterling.
"Excalibur is the keystone. He directs the line. If he steps up, they all step up. If he drops, they all drop. They move as one organism."
"So we break the keystone," Soccer said.
"Easier said than done. Sterling is 6'3, fast, and smarter than all of you combined. He reads plays before they happen."
Titan looked at the monsters.
"We need speed. The Heavy Impact style won't work—they're bigger than us. We need to go around the wall."
"Around is boring," Soccer mumbled. "Through is faster."
"Through gets you decapitated," Titan snapped. "Silas. You start."
"Affirmative," Silas stood up. "Analysis indicates England struggles against rapid directional changes in the half-spaces."
"Cool words," Soccer yawned. "Can we play now?"
Kickoff.
England kicked off. They didn't attack.
They passed the ball back to Sterling. He trapped it. He looked upfield. He waited.
"Come," Sterling seemed to say.
The US attacked. Soccer pressed Sterling.
Sterling didn't pass. He pivoted.
Soccer lunged for the ball. Sterling did a simple drag-back turn. Smooth. Solid.
"Nice try, peasant," Sterling muttered. He launched a 60-yard pass perfectly to his striker.
England didn't dribble. They played long-ball artillery.
The ball landed at the English striker's feet. He held it up. Laid it off to a midfielder.
Shot.
Zero saved it. Routine catch.
"Their attacks are simple," Zero said, throwing the ball to Silas. "But heavy."
USA counter-attack.
Silas passed to Kai. Kai tried to dribble down the wing.
An English defender—Lancelot (actually named Lance)—stepped in.
He didn't dive in. He mirrored Kai's movement perfectly. He waited for Kai to make a move.
When Kai tried to cut inside, Lance poked the ball away. Clean.
"Honor in defense," Lance stated, jogging back into formation.
Kai kicked the grass. "Robots! They're just like Noa's bots!"
"No," Soccer ran over. "Bots react. These guys protect. They stand together."
He looked at the Round Table formation. Five defenders in a perfect arc. No gaps.
"It's a shield wall," Soccer said. "We need a siege engine."
Minute 30.
0-0.
The game was a gridlock. USA possessed the ball but couldn't enter the box. England absorbed the pressure and cleared it.
"Soccer!" Vincent yelled. "Make a hole!"
Vincent had the ball. He was tired of passing. He wanted to charge.
He ran at Arthur Sterling.
The Dragon vs. Excalibur.
"I will break you!" Vincent roared. He lowered his shoulder for the Battering Ram.
Sterling stood firm. He lowered his center of gravity.
As Vincent impacted, Sterling shifted his weight slightly. He used Vincent's momentum against him.
The Parry.
He guided Vincent past him. Vincent stumbled, his immense power directed into empty space. Sterling neatly took the ball off his toe as he fell past.
"Strength without control is weakness," Sterling said calmly, clearing the ball.
Vincent hit the turf, fuming. "He felt like... rubber. He didn't hit back. He absorbed."
"Judo," Silas noted. "He redirects force."
Soccer bounced on his titanium foot.
"Redirects force," Soccer whispered. "So don't use force."
Halftime.
0-0.
"We can't score," Dylan cried (from the bench). "It's iron. An Iron Curtain."
"Titanium Curtain," Soccer corrected. "Actually, steel."
Titan rubbed his temples. "They're waiting for a set piece. One corner kick, one header from Sterling, and we lose 1-0."
Soccer sat on the floor, untying and retying his boot.
"Hey Zero," Soccer said.
"Yes?"
"Does the Void eat shields?"
"The Void eats everything. Metal just tastes metallic."
"Okay," Soccer stood up. "Arthur redirects force, right? He uses our speed against us."
Soccer looked at Silas.
"Calculator. What if the speed is zero?"
"Stationary play?"
"Yeah. What if we just... stop? Right in front of him?"
"That would allow him to tackle you easily."
"Only if he knows which way I'm going to start moving again."
Soccer grabbed a ball.
"Arthur protects the castle. So we don't attack the castle. We attack the moat."
"What are you talking about?" Kai scoffed.
"We stop outside the box. We make him come out. If the King leaves the castle... the castle is empty."
Second Half.
Minute 60.
0-0.
The crowd was getting restless. Boring! Attack!
Soccer received the ball at the 25-yard line.
Sterling stood at the 18-yard line, holding the line.
"Come, barbarian," Sterling taunted.
Soccer stopped.
He put his foot on the ball. He stood still.
The other US players stopped too. Vincent stopped. Kai stopped.
Total stillness.
The English defenders looked confused. Why aren't they running into our wall?
"Come out," Soccer whispered.
Sterling hesitated. His tactical discipline said 'stay back.' But his honor said 'challenge him.'
Five seconds passed. Ten.
The referee looked at his watch.
Finally, Sterling's patience cracked. He stepped forward. Just one step.
Then two.
He left the line. He came to engage Soccer.
"Error," Silas noted. "He broke formation."
As Sterling approached, Soccer didn't dribble.
He looked at Sterling's feet.
When Sterling lifted his foot to take the next step—that millisecond of unbalance—Soccer acted.
He didn't run.
He scooped the ball up.
Not a shot. A vertical pop-up.
He popped the ball straight up into the air, ten feet high.
Sterling stopped, looking up. "What—"
Soccer didn't wait for it to come down. He ran around the distracted Sterling.
"Kai! Volley!"
Soccer screened Sterling (legallyish) while running.
Kai Rivers ran onto the falling ball.
He didn't let it bounce.
He smashed a volley from 22 yards out.
The Falling Star.
Sterling turned too late.
The ball dipped violently over the goalkeeper's hand.
GOAL.
USA: 1 - England: 0.
Soccer ran to Kai. "He looked up! The King looked at the bird!"
Kai smirked. "And the Arrow pierced the heart."
Arthur Sterling stared at the ground. He had stepped out. He had broken the shield wall.
"Discipline," Sterling hissed to himself. "Maintain discipline."
Minute 80.
England attacked. Now they were desperate. The order was crumbling.
"Charge!" Sterling ordered.
The Knights abandoned the castle. They flooded forward.
High balls into the box. Aerial bombardment.
Zero was a monster. He caught crosses. He punched headers.
But the pressure was immense.
Corner kick for England.
Sterling ran up. The giant.
The cross came in. Sterling jumped. He towered over Vincent.
POWER HEADER.
It slammed toward the corner.
Zero dove... but he was beaten.
But someone was hanging on the post.
Soccer.
He had learned from Dylan's sacrifice. He hugged the post.
The ball came at his head.
He didn't head it away. That would just pop it back into the mixer.
He trapped it.
With his forehead.
He absorbed the rocket header by cushioning it with his skull against the goalpost. It looked incredibly painful.
Thud.
He pinned the ball between his head and the metal post.
"Caught it!" Soccer groaned, cross-eyed from the impact.
He let it drop to his feet and cleared it.
"You headbutted the post?" Vincent stared at him. "Are you brain damaged?"
"Probably," Soccer blinked dizzily. "I see three of you. The middle Vincent is ugly."
Minute 88.
USA Counter.
England was fully committed to attack. Their defensive line was gone.
Soccer received the ball at midfield.
One defender left. Not Sterling. Lancelot.
Lancelot backed up. Terrified.
Soccer ran. The Titanium Spring hummed.
Boing. Boing.
He was fast.
He approached Lancelot.
He feinted left.
Lancelot bit.
Soccer Elastic-Cut right. The ball snapped back so fast it blurred.
Lancelot fell over his own ankles.
Open goal.
Soccer dribbled into the box.
Sterling was sprinting back. Desperate. Honor-bound to save the game.
He slid. A massive, game-saving tackle from behind.
"I have you!" Sterling screamed.
Soccer heard the slide.
He didn't shoot.
He stopped.
He put his sole on the ball and paused.
Sterling slid past him, studs clearing out empty air.
Sterling ended up in the net.
Soccer looked at the sliding knight.
"Checkmate," Soccer whispered.
He tapped the ball in.
GOAL.
USA: 2 - England: 0.
Full Time.
The whistle blew.
The Knights of the Round Table fell to their knees. The dream of 'Football Coming Home' died in Paris.
Arthur Sterling stood up. He walked over to Soccer.
He took off his armband. Then his jersey.
He handed the white jersey to Soccer.
"You play without honor," Sterling said, wiping tears. "But you play with heart. The castle fell to the barbarian."
Soccer took the jersey. He draped it over his shoulder.
"Honor is heavy," Soccer said. "Heart is light. Light things float."
He looked at the Quarterfinal bracket flashing on the screen.
USA vs...
SPAIN.
"Spain," Kai groaned. "The Bullfighters. They don't fight force. They dance around it."
"Matadors," Soccer nodded. "They wear red capes."
Vincent cracked his knuckles. "I hate capes."
Soccer bounced. His head still hurt from the goalpost.
"Then let's go act like bulls," Soccer grinned. "And trample the cape."